Not Doing This Anymore
by Lila Elensar
Summary: Harry is home for the summer and realizes he's been through more than he should have by the age of 16. A short fic.
1. Default Chapter

Harry awoke to the feel of rain on his face. He opened his eyes to the gray- ness of pre-dawn. He was laying under a bush in the Dursley's backyard and it had stated raining.  
  
Trudging back into the silent house, Harry made his way to the downstairs bathroom and turned the shower on. He had slept outside last night, not wanting to endure another beating from his Uncle for waking the house up with his screams. He turned the tap as hot as it would go, stripped out of his damp clothes and climbed into the shower. The steaming water scalded his skin, but Harry didn't notice. He always felt cold, not just his skin, but his bones, his entire body, his soul . He stood in the shower for over half an hour. He knew that the water wouldn't warm him, but that wasn't what he was looking for. He enjoyed the sensation of the burning water pelting against his skin. The pain overrode all other senses. It made Harry temporarily forget that he was an orphan, that his only living relatives hated him, that he was supposed to save the world, and that he was to blame for the deaths of his godfather and Cedric. The scalding water cleared his mind of everything save for the burning sensation in his skin.  
  
When the memories of his life started to seep back into his mind, Harry got out of the shower. He turned the water off, wrapped a towel around his waist and looked at himself in the mirror. He was thin, very thin. The small amount of bulk on top of his bones was pure muscle from Quidditch. His ribs were clearly visible, as were his hipbones, shoulder blades, and spine. His skin was perfectly clear, extremely red, but clear of blemishes. Most people assumed that Harry was just lucky and didn't have to go through that portion of being a teenager. Technically there were right, although that wasn't the reason his skin was perfectly clear.  
  
Harry had learned years ago how to heal his own wounds, how to focus his magic to heal his self inflicted cuts. Looking into the mirror again, Harry realized that he needed to shave. He finished the job quickly and smoothly. His facial hair was soft and light, barely noticeable. Harry stared at the razor in his hand. It was new, and fairly sharp. He pictured himself slitting his own throat with it, saw his aunt and uncle come in to find him lying dead on the floor, surround by a pool of his own blood. The thought didn't scare him. He often longed to be dead. Living wasn't worth the pain, suffering, and guilt that he tried to deal with everyday.  
  
Harry heard someone walk down the stairs. He quickly dressed in clean, dry clothes and hurried out of the bathroom, taking the razor with him. He slipped into his own small bedroom unnoticed and sat on the edge of his bed. No one would bother him here, for another half-hour at least. He pried the blade out of the plastic razor and held it over his forearm. He ran the blade over his skin, creating a thin red line horizontally across his wrist. Again, he ran the blade along the cut, making it deeper. It hurt, but that was the point. Harry watched, almost spellbound, as blood ran down the length of his arm, pooling in the crook of his elbow. He wiped the blood away with a rag from under his bed and made a second cut with the blade. This one wasn't as deep, the shallow cuts always hurt more. He watched the blood trickle down his arm. It probably would have tickled, but the nerves on top of his skin were unresponsive because of his earlier shower.  
  
Harry stared at his bleeding arm for ten minutes, concentrating on the pain. Finally he wiped the blood away again and sighed. He closed his eyes and, breathing deeply, focused his magic towards his arm. The cuts healed quickly and smoothly. No one would ever know that he had cut himself just to feel the pain. He knew no one would understand it. No one could. He was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, no one else was like him. No one else had been through everything he had been through. No one else had lost everything they ever loved to Voldemort. No one else had been marked Voldemort's equal at the age of one. There was no one to understand the simple fact that he, Harry, was responsible for the deaths of two innocent people. He was different, he had been through too much by the young age of sixteen and he knew it. He also knew that it was only the beginning. He would have to go through more than twice as much by the time it was over. And Harry couldn't help thinking that he didn't want to go through any of it. He didn't want to be responsible for any more death. He didn't want to kill Voldemort.  
  
He didn't want any of it. He couldn't take any more of it. So as his Aunt banged on his bedroom door, telling him to get downstairs and make breakfast, he placed the razor blade underneath his bed, knowing that one day soon he may very well cut both of his wrists in long longitudinal lines and not bother to heal them. 


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own anything having to do with Harry Potter  
  
I had fully intending on making this a one shot fic, but I didn't tell anyone that, and one of my few readers assumed there would be more. This got me thinking...  
  
I've decided to use this story as an outlet for emotion, I'll try to link it all together, but if some parts don't seem to match.. well then I'll ask you to forgive me, I don't always make sense.  
  
Chapter 2  
  
The summer holiday passed in a haze of depression and pain. Harry never argued with his Aunt or Uncle, he did as he was told without question or complaint. Consequently, his relatives demanded less and less of him, leaving him more time to dwell on his memories.  
  
He knew that cutting himself didn't solve anything, that it only took away his emotional pain for mere minutes. He knew, his brain told him, that cutting himself, physically harming himself, was causing more harm than good. It would leave psychological scars on top of the ones he already possessed. But he didn't care. Numbing the pain was better than nothing.  
  
On September 1st the Order escorted Harry to the platform. Harry smiled kindly to Remus, the one person who may have had some idea of that what he was going through, but stayed completely silent for the entire trip. He politely thanked the Order as he boarded the Hogwarts Express holding a piece of parchment that Remus has slipped him.  
  
Harry, I know this is hard for you, close to unbearable. Believe me, I know. But harry, stay with us, don't get lost in the pain. I know how easy it Can be to forget about everything, to concentrate solely on what you're Feeling and forget to live. It's not worth it, it's not worth forgetting to Live you're life. If you ever need anything, someone to talk to, a hug, Even a duller razor... well, Hedwig knows where to find me.  
Remus  
  
"How did he know?" Harry whispered, destroying the parchment with a waveof his wand.  
  
"How did who know what?" Ron asked suddenly, walking loudly into the compartment with Hermione and Ginny in tow.  
  
"Nothing," harry said quietly. He curled himself up, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs and stared out the window.  
  
His senses told him that Ginny was sitting beside him and that Ron and Hermione were talking quietly on the other seat. He concentrated on not looking at them, at anything at all.  
  
No matter what Remus advised, Harry couldn't go back to who he had been before. Nothing was the same, and although Remus may have had a grasp on that, no one completely understood it. He couldn't just sit and chat with friends about things of little importance. He couldn't pretend that everything was aright when it clearly wasn't. He would pretend to be okay for his friends, but he could not sit there and try to be happy with everything.  
  
Ron and Hermione were busy with prefect duties for most of the trip so the only time Harry was forced to speak was when he offered Ginny a pumpkin pasty he had bought off the trolley.  
  
Rain splattered against the windows of the train as the sky darkened. Harry sighed inwardly and wondered if his mood directly affected the weather. The rain became a constant, penetrating drizzle as Harry climbed out of his carriage and walked into the Entrance Hall. Hogwarts was full of memory, memories that Harry was tired of reliving in his nightmares. He didn't want to be here, it was the one place that he could call home, and he could barely stand being there. In Hogwarts he was expected to be smart, to be strong, to be the saviour of the whole damn world.  
  
Shivering in his damn clothes, Harry walked almost dejectedly into the Great Hall, ate in silence and walked quickly to his room. He couldn't handle talking to anyone right now. What he wanted was a really hot shower and that dull blade Remus had mentioned. He was practically shaking with suppressed emotion as he pulled the hangings clothes around his bed and pulled a still-sharp razor from his pocket. He cut his arm with an ease that only came with experience and after the pain no longer made him forget he healed himself and fell into a fitful sleep filled with visions of horrible, taunting memories. 


	3. Confrontations

I know it's been over a year since I've posted anything.  
I'm lazy.  
And tend to get side-tracked easily.  
And then there's the whole university thing..

Anyway.. here is chapter 3.

**Confrontations**

Harry put on an entirely too convincing performance the next day. He went through every single class pretending that he was fine, that he was more than okay, and that he didn't have semi-suicidal tendencies. He may need to hurt himself but he had no wish to hurt his friends. So he pretended to be okay for them, for as long as he could.

After excusing himself from supper early, Harry did all of his homework in his room, enclosed in the curtains surrounding his four poster bed. It was something Hermione would have been proud of.

Harry sat silently on his bed; his wand lit for some light, and listened to the murmur of noise from the common room. His heart pounded inside of his chest, he didn't want anyone to interrupt him or see him for that matter. The act he had put on all day was taking its toll on him and all he could concentrate on was making the pain go away. Taking a new quill out of his bag, Harry slowly ran the tip across his palm. It stung, but didn't break the skin. The sigh that escaped Harry's lips was one of relief, not pain. He ran the sharp quill over his palm again, making criss-crossing red lines on his hand. They were like paper cuts, shallow but deceptively painful. All conscious thinking left his mind as Harry concentrated solely on the pain.

He couldn't handle listening to Ron and Hermione argue over senseless points. He couldn't look into Dumbledore's twinkling eyes. It was too hard.

"It's my fault," he mumbled as he cut himself again. He watched the blood trickle out of the cut that went from the top of him palm and zigzagged half way up his arm. It hurt. It made Harry's eyes water in pain. But it was all consuming. There was no room to think about emotions. He reveled in the mind numbing pain and only healed his wounds when he heard footsteps.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?" Harry answered quietly, cleaning his own blood off of his quill.

"You okay mate?"

"I'm fine Ron. Just tired. I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"Yeah, alright," he heard Ron sigh before leaving the room again.

Harry woke up in the middle of the night from a nightmare. He threw his invisibility cloak on and left the dorm. After half and hour of wandering through the school Harry found himself in the astronomy tower. Throwing his cloak on a nearby bench, Harry stood at the wall of the tower. The sky was a long way up, and the ground was a long way down. Harry wondered how much it would hurt if he jumped. Would it kill him? Or just leave him seriously wounded for life?

He knew that his death would hurt people, that it might mean Voldemort would win. He wasn't looking for attention, he wanted an escape. What chance did he really have of beating Voldemort anyway? It wasn't even that he wanted to die… he wanted to be left alone. To be rid of his horrible memories, not to be chosen and marked as Voldemort's equal.

Harry stood on the low wall and looked over the dark landscape. The wind blew coolly, the stars were bright, the moon was a tiny sliver. The night was silent.

"Mr. Potter," a voice growled.

Harry jumped in shock but his reflexes allowed him to land safely on the floor of the tower.

"What do you think you're doing," Snape hissed.

"Thinking," Harry answered defiantly. All of his defenses were raised at the sight of the teacher who hated him.

"On the edge of the astronomy tower? Where you could have fallen and killed yourself?" Snape questioned icily.

"There are worse things," Harry whispered.

"You hold surprisingly little value for your own life, considering the lengths we've taken to protect you," Snape growled. "What do you think would happen if you died?"

Harry said nothing.

"Answer me." Harry walked around Snape, heading towards the stairs. "Mr. Potter, answer me." Harry kept walking. "Harry!"

Harry spun around. "I think that Cedric and Sirius would still be alive. I think the world would be better off without a 'hero' like me. I think my relatives would stop hating me! I think I'd be a hell of a lot happier having some kind of control over my own damn life!" Harry shouted with clenched fists and shining eyes.

Snape blinked in shock before he regained his mask of indifference. "Nothing will bring Cedric and Black back to life. Deal with it. And I assure you, you are not considered a hero. You are, however, just as arrogant and self- centered as you father was."

Harry's eyes narrowed menacingly. "Don't assume to think that you know a thing about me," he hissed. "You decided you hated me the minute you saw me. You're not different that my abusive relatives. I am not my father, stop making me pay for his mistakes." Seeing the flash of anger in his Potion Master's eyes he quickly disappeared under his cloak before Snape could retaliate.

Storming back to his common room, Harry was seething. How dare Snape accuse him of being an arrogant fool. Harry threw himself onto his bed, angry at Snape for not understanding and angry at himself for snapping. He fell asleep, for once feeling something other than depressed and alone.

Okay, I know it's not the best.. but I wrote it like forever ago.  
I wouldn't expect more posts really soon. But I do like this story and I do plan on finishing it at some point.

Tell me what you think of it. As long as you don't hate it. If you hate it, I'd rather not know.


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